


tempests, never shaken

by nocturnalKnight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, F/M, Getting Together, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Rating May Change, Verbal Sparring, Verdant Wind route, slight ashe/annette, slight dorothea/edelgard, starts after their B support
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnalKnight/pseuds/nocturnalKnight
Summary: Dorothea teaches Felix how to dance for the White Heron Cup, they get roped into sneaking out together to hunt ghosts, and a whole lot of unresolved sexual tension ensues.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

The professor, in a fit of pique, chooses Felix as their dancer representative. At this announcement, the whole room buzzes with a disquieted, quizzical murmur. Sylvain nudges him with an elbow and a cheeky wink. Felix sends back a death glare cold enough to chill Ailell over. The boar gives him a sympathetic glance - he and Sylvain are sitting in on the Golden Deer’s lecture today - and he wants to projectile vomit. His position is so low and base an animal is pitying him. Felix is almost regretting changing classes, except it means he doesn’t have to endure the volatile prince and his dumbass childhood friend as often. 

“Dorothea, Felix, see me after class.” Byleth adds, as class lets out and they can hardly be heard over the din of the exodus. 

They exchange looks. Felix’s expression is indecipherable. Dorothea just looks and feels bewildered. They both approach Professor Byleth at their desk as if they're about to receive jail sentences.

“Dorothea, will you train Felix for the cup?” Professor Byleth asks, glancing up from marking assignments. Felix immediately splutters. 

" _What?!_ ” They both exclaim. 

“I am not a dancer,” Byleth states. “Dorothea has the most charm and performing experience out of us all. Who makes more sense to teach you?” 

“I question, again, why you made me the representative at all,” Felix spits through gritted teeth. 

“You refuse to engage with the rest of your class,” The Professor says deadpan. “If the only reason you transferred houses was to fight me, you've gravely mistook the point. You are part of a team. This is a chance to show that you are invested in said team.” 

“I am not here to make _friends_ ,” Felix sneers. 

“Nor do I intend on forcing you to,” they reply. “But if you don’t even make an effort to earn their trust or build camaraderie, my strategies mean nothing. This is how I want you to hone skills you’ve neglected. I told Rhea you would participate. We can back out now if you’d like.”

Expertly played, Dorothea thinks, impressed. Nothing infuriates Felix more than backing down. Felix’s jaw muscle twitches. Professor Byleth is blank, but Dorothea can catch the hint of victory by the corners of their mouth.

“Of course,” The Professor says, looking at Dorothea. “This is presupposing that Dorothea will even agree to it. You’ll get extra credit, but I won’t force you either.” 

Felix looks at her with an expression bordering on stone. The last time they talked, he called her a gold digger, and she told him off. Not great terms. She can’t tell if he wants her to do it or not, but something impulsive in her makes her say, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

* * *

They agree to try that night after dinner, so as to not cut into Felix’s precious, precious sparring time. They’re holed up in an empty classroom, Felix gingerly handling Dorothea like one of Claude’s poisons. Dorothea would be offended, but she just rolls her eyes and tries to instruct as best she can.

“Felix, you promised to try and relax.” Dorothea sighs, as they’re trying to move through a basic waltz.

“I _am_ relaxed.” Felix shoots back, sounding strangled and aggravated.

“You _feel_ like a golem holding onto me. Look, unclench. Listen to me. Sparring is like dancing, but apply your experience towards a non combat situation.”

“Please help me see how this is anything like sparring,” he growls. 

“Don’t let this go to your head, but you’re a good physical fighter,” she says, missing the ever so soft pink tinge to his cheeks. “That means you have good control of your body, an awareness that many others don’t have. You need to translate that into expressing yourself in elegant movement.” 

“I express myself just fine on the battlefield,” he says. “You show me how it’s done, then. Dance for me.” 

“Excuse me?” She says, halting their stilted movement. “Finer men have asked less of me-”

“Please.” He grits out, and she falls silent. She disentangles from him and eyes him with the same expression he’s always seen on her. Like she’s trying to puzzle him out.

She says, "Well. Since you _begged_."

He rolls his eyes but takes a few steps back, sensing an oncoming performance. She closes her eyes, presses her hands together. He knows she was the diva of an opera company, but he didn't know someone could pull attention to themselves like that, as she somehow gathers all the light in the room. Radiant, she begins to hum and move through an old routine, one that she’s memorized from the old days. It’s not strenuous - simply a lone singer pretending to dance in an empty room with an imaginary lover. She moves gracefully, all the longing and sadness within her coming out.

“You are racking up quite a debt to me, Felix Hugo Fraldarius,” she says, as she winds across the room, and she doesn’t look to him for an appraisal of her performance. She won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she wants his approval. Not yet. Dorothea comes to a natural stop in front of a table diagonal to him and gestures to him to take the floor. “Your turn. I want you to dance like you’re...about to defeat every other person on the dance floor with your skill.” 

He’s stunned by her performance, and it shows on his face briefly. She’s extremely gratified, but she’s not going to let it distract her. 

“Pretend you’re fencing an invisible partner with your sword. Will that help?” 

Felix recovers and snorts at the suggestion, but does try. The next time he goes, it’s better. Looser, and he at least moves with some purpose. She allows the smallest of smiles. 

“We’ll make a dancer out of you yet, Fraldarius.” 

He scoffs. “Don’t count on it.” 

“Come on,” she goads, “Wouldn’t want your old House to get gloating rights, would you?”

“You are an infuriating woman.” 

“I just know you’re competitive. Such a typical boy.” 

“I care about being the best.” 

“So prove it.” 

After a few more laps, he comes at the point of snapping, and she quickly ends the lesson before he unleashes a classic barrage of his acid tongue. Goddess, she hopes the extra credit is worth this, even if it’s entertaining to needle Felix.

* * *

A few nights later, Felix is woken by the sound of voices.

“ _You_ do it-"

“No, you-"

“You’re- you’re friends with him-"

Then, an irritated, but familiar, huff. “I’ll do it.” 

He sleeps with his sword, but he knows each voice and suspects a prank. He feels a hand on his shoulder, nudging gently, and a whisper that shouldn't excite him-

“Felix.” 

He rolls over and finds Dorothea, Mercedes, Annette and Ashe in his room, dimly lit by the moon. Dorothea, wisely, does not have her hat on, though he notes with befuddlement that Mercedes is wearing it. Dorothea looks as perfect as she does in the day, even with her hair mussed and no makeup. He hates himself for noticing.

Ashe and Annette seem both scared and excited, Mercedes is as unreadable as ever, and Dorothea just comes across slightly tired and amused. Belatedly, he realizes he’s not wearing a shirt, and everyone politely averts their gaze except Dorothea. It would be worse if she was ogling him, but she doesn’t even seem to register his nakedness. Surprisingly, this feels like a blow to his ego. He blushes, and willing his face to cool, he says hotly, “If this isn’t about a surprise attack on the monastery or a late night training, get the hell out of my room.” 

“One track mind with you as always, Felix,” Dorothea says. 

“We’re going ghost hunting,” Mercedes says hungrily, her maternal facade breaking into what is frankly disturbing joy. 

Felix gazes at Annette and Ashe, who’ve told him different, yet equally hilarious stories about them getting spooked by people who were decidedly _not_ ghosts. He pities Marianne. “And you’re taking _them_.” 

Annette protests, “ _Hey!_ ” while Ashe puts a hand on her shoulder and shakes his head. “No, no, that’s fair. We’re being brave, though! We’re conquering our fears together as friends!” 

Ashe is so knightly, sometimes Felix wants to push him into the pond.

“You’re insane. What do you need me for,” he asks bluntly.

"You're scary," Ashe says. 

"You're a melee fighter," Annette tries. 

"We drew your name out of my hat," Dorothea admits. 

"Glad I was your first choice," He replies sarcastically. 

* * *

They walk through darkened corridors and empty halls, dodging patrol routes that both Dorothea and Mercedes know suspiciously _too_ well. Felix shoots both the girls a look - but it’s not his job to find out what shenanigans they get up to. 

He grumbles and complains, and he would rather strip himself of his teeth than admit it, but it’s...interesting. Even if Mercedes is a lunatic. She’s off scaring Ashe and Annette with her paranormal tales while Dorothea strolls alongside braiding Mercedes’ hair and occasionally laughing or interjecting with her own color commentary. Sylvain isn't trying to scandalize everyone in sight, and Ingrid isn't nagging at him like a hound on his heels. It's different. 

Dorothea suggests to Mercedes, “Was she a magic user? She should’ve just zinged him on the spot for cheating before turning into a pillar of ash.”

“Nonsense. She should’ve run him through with his own sword.” He finds himself remarking. 

Dorothea slowly shakes her head at him. “No imagination, Fraldarius.” 

Annette says to Ashe, “I think I preferred your knightly stories.” 

The grey-haired archer perks up adorably. “Did you read the one I told you about?” 

Dorothea whispers something into Mercedes’ ear. It looks like they're splitting off into groups, Ashe and Annette and Mercedes wandering off in one direction while she sidles up to Felix. 

“Why on earth did I agree to this,” he groans, to the only semi-sane person in their group. Dorothea Arnault. 

“Because we all begged and pleaded, and when that didn’t work, Annette bribed you with another song,” Dorothea replies. “I didn’t know you were so musically inclined, Felix.” 

He dodges that conversational segue like it’s made out of knives. “The better question is, why did _you_ come. Don’t you...need your beauty sleep or whatever.” 

She laughs. “Say no to that adorable trio? I couldn’t possibly.” 

He stares at her. 

“Annette and Mercedes bribed me with pastries,” she allows. “Anyway, they’ve been nice. They’ve been the friendliest to me since I moved houses.” 

He doesn’t say anything to this, just grunts. 

She keeps talking, even though it’s obvious he’s not listening or interested. “I never had anything like this experience, you see,” she says, “I never went to school. I studied furiously, though, when I was discovered. Manuela taught me how to read and write, and I wanted to know all about the world. I doubled my efforts when she quit, though, because I realized...” 

“Realized what?” 

She starts with a jolt; he was listening. She needs to stop that bad habit of monologing; it’ll get her in trouble eventually. 

“Nothing.” 

He scrutinizes her before continuing, “You knew Professor Manuela before?” 

“You mean you don’t know-”

There's shrieks in the distance, girlish and high, probably Annette. Dorothea and Felix’s eyes meet for a split second before they’re both sprinting towards the sound, Felix faster, sword drawn and Dorothea’s fists pulsing a vibrant green.

* * *

They rush to the source of the noise - the cafeteria. They burst through the doors, then stop short. No threat detected, only Lysithea in the middle of the room with the rest of the group. Annette looks abashed as they all stand in the moonlight together, the white of Lysithea's hair glowing supernaturally bright. 

“Mercie! You shouldn’t be telling ghost stories in your spooky voice while we’re ghost hunting!” Annette fumes. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Annie, I thought it would attract them if I imitated them.” 

“Please, Mercie, you scared Lysithea.” At this, Dorothea sighs with relief and Felix stands down. Pretty obvious what happened here - Lysithea is pale as frost, though her embarrassed blush encroaches and warms her complexion speedily. 

Lysithea petulantly sniffs at this. “I was not scared, I simply thought you were an intruder and wanted to alert others to your presence. _You_ screamed first, Annette." 

“Guys, we have to be quiet. We’re going to get caught for sneaking out past curfew,” Ashe interjects, wringing his hands. “I heard one of the guards talking to the Professor about wandering students already.” 

Felix snorts. “That’s just Sylvain and his girls.” 

“I’m surprised you haven’t ratted him out yet, Felix,” Dorothea remarks, smirking. 

Felix opens his mouth to retort, but then they all hear it: the sound of Alois’ heavy plate clanking on the floor, approaching from the main building. He’s clearly shaking, but his voice rings out, “I-I’m not scared of you, whatever ghastly beast you are! I am a Knight of Seiros!” Then his tone turns to seriousness: “Unless you’re a student, in which case, I hope you are ready for my disciplinary wrath! Sylvain Jose Gautier, you’ve already been reprimanded several times for _licentious behavior_ -”

They all look at each other for a frenzied second and it’s Annette who hisses, “ _Hide!!!!!!_ ” 

Everyone scatters in different directions. Lysithea, Annette, Ashe and Mercedes dart out towards the pond, while Dorothea and Felix are closest to where they entered - the entrance towards the Officers’ Academy. They sprint as silently as possible through the greenery and hedge mazes. Dorothea tries to contain her nervous giggling, but can’t. Felix scowls, even though she can't see it. 

“You can’t be entertained by this situation,” he whispers as loudly as he can to be heard over the wind whipping in their ears. 

“I’m insane. What can I say?” She quips. “Take a left near the stairs, I’ll hide you in my room until the danger passes.” 

They nearly make it past the stairs until they hear another patrol guard. Dorothea, freaking out, whips out a hand and yanks Felix into the alcove tucked in the turn of the staircase. 

She clutches him tight in between the staircase and the wall, and he’s almost pressed up against her chest. He’d squeak, but he’s staring into deep green eyes, wide with panic. She gestures to her lips with a finger, the universal code of _silence_. Dorothea's hands are still bunched up in the vest of his uniform as if he’s going to run away. Gently, with a deference he didn’t know he possessed, he places his hands on hers as if to pull them away. She relaxes and releases him, only to find that his hands are still on hers. They're warm. She thought if she ever touched him - not that she's thought about it - he would be like ice, Faerghan winters. But of course he runs as hot as his temper. 

She’s never examined him up close. He’s handsome, of course. A wolfish kind of handsome, with too-intense amber eyes that never seem to be looking at you but through you. His stupid messy hair is everywhere after that chase and she wants to smooth it away. _Ugh! Dorothea Arnault, he insulted you. Don’t_ touch _him. (Except you already are.)_

After what seems like an eternity, the sound of gauntleted feet fades into the distance. He drops her hands and whispers, “I think they’re gone.” Felix quickly tears away from her. She blinks for a second before she’s following him past her room, towards the steps to the second floor. 

“Will you be -”

“I’ll be fine.” He says brusquely, already ascending the stairs. Then, close to the top, he stops and turns. Dorothea's watching him, her figure still illuminated in pale moonlight. The tableau of his own figure framed by torchlight, looking down at her. 

“Why did you aid me? Just now, and with...the dancing lessons.” He asks. “I was...inconsiderate. Before.” 

“You were an ass, Felix,” Dorothea corrects lightly. She’s surprised, but she gathers some untapped resolve in her that makes her next words count. No man, however handsome, however flummoxed she may be in close quarters, can slight her without her pressing her own advantage. “So let me put this bluntly: the girl you looked down on? You owe her an apology.”

But she’s still a schoolgirl high off the heels of adrenaline, so Dorothea graciously gives a one-shouldered shrug. “But I wasn’t about to hang you out to dry. You’re one of us now.” 

“One of us? What does that mean?” 

She smiles and disappears into the night.

* * *

He doesn’t notice girls. That’s just a fact. Every girl who’s sidled up to him while with Sylvain are blurry memories and faces. The sharpness of his blades, the strength of his core and stance, the way an opponent moves and flows; this is what he remembers and notes. He’s never let himself be distracted. 

Yet in his new class, he is surrounded by a bevy of truly infuriating women; he’d be an idiot not to admit all of them are remarkable. 

It’s just...

He gazes at Dorothea in class the next day. For only a moment. For only a breath and wonders what Glenn would think of her. Glenn would cuff him at the back of the head and tell him to get stronger, probably, but he still wonders. 

The next few weeks are strange. Annette, Ashe, Mercedes and Lysithea have decided to rope him into whatever club they have. Lysithea is on the edges, closer with the Golden Deer, but she shoves cake at him anyway and his old housemates refuse to let him eat alone. The one person he doesn’t see is Dorothea. When Bernadetta and Petra join the Golden Deer she’s back to sitting with them again and doesn’t even give him a moment’s consideration. 

He told her she was a nuisance. He told her to leave him alone. He should be happy. So why isn’t he?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoilers for Ashen Wolves - just Yuri and Dorothea's whole support chain - in the first part of this chapter!

Yuri had told her why he’d been so reticent to sing, recently. Dorothea imagines a beleaguered, beautiful boy clawing his way up the ranks, haunted by the ghost of her voice at his heels. Two orphans, set apart by circumstance. 

She’s lying on her back outside the Academy. It’s the brightest, warmest hour of the day and she, by virtue of being a mage, had opted out of the day’s axe-oriented seminar. Annette, Mercedes and Lysithea are sequestered in the library, studying. If she closes her eyes it is like she’s alone. She thinks about the flashpoint she feels like, Yuri forever hating singing because of Enbarr’s idol-worship of her, and the odd parallel of her stumbling into the boy who’d made her feel like dirt the day she was discovered: Ferdinand. He still lingers on the peripherals after her transfer, trying desperately to vie for her friendship. She still remembers coming across him the first day at Garreg Mach, the flash of revulsion that had reared up at the sight of his familiar face. She didn’t know if it was for him, her, or the both of them.

* * *

The flash of sun above the spires and roofs of Enbarr was something she would never forget. The wind bracketed around her and the gorgeous, opulent, luxuriant, heavy dress she was wearing: she was sixteen and she’d just murdered a man, impaled him on her sword until he’d gurgled around the blade. He was a rich man who wanted her to be his private singer forever. She hadn’t decided whether to burn his corpse yet, but she was done. The silk on her dress was marred by the blood on her hem, and she took a deep breath and surveyed the scene beyond her: the crown jewel of Adrestia and her home, glimmering parapets and crimson flags flying everywhere. A far cry from the gutters she used to sleep in. Night was falling and the sky was an orange deeply dipped in purple and red watercolors. 

Her last play was tonight. 

When the curtains rose she had stormed backstage without a care for any of the concerned voices around her. Center stage, in the same burgundy dress with the man’s head in her fist, Dorothea Arnault held it aloft, face blank, to a scandalized crowd of officials and gentry who’d come to hear her swan song and dissuade her of early retirement. 

“Enough,” she had said, and that word had been the last. 

She dropped his head with a satisfying thunk on the wood stage. Blood splattered everywhere. She registered dimly that it would be hard to clean and made note to leave a generous tip to those cleaning up tonight. A couple of the more cowardly audience members shrieked and backed away. But this was Enbarr, no stranger to bloodshed, all of them - everyone else remained in their seats, paralyzed, and she walked away. 

Later on she found out the Emperor’s heir apparent had been in attendance that evening and sent her regards. She’d smoothed over her crime and transferred the man’s assets to Dorothea entirely. It would all go to paying her tuition at Garreg Mach for the next few years, but it was enough that Dorothea wouldn’t have to ransack her savings entirely. 

_I look forward to being your classmate, Lady Arnault. - Her Majesty, Edelgard von Hresvelg_

* * *

Her eyes open. The sun beats down on her and she shields the light with a hand. She’d turned and never looked back, even if sometimes she missed the stage in briefest moments. She did not miss the opulence nor the grandeur, all snakes hiding under gold: but she misses the roar of a crowd who’d come for her, even if it stung to be made from girl to symbol. She misses singing for its own joy, which is why she adores Annette. Mercedes, whose own story mirrored hers of the cruel whims of Imperial noblemen, is too kind to be borne. Dorothea wants to shield Mercedes from her past, even as they hold hands and giggle behind boughs and in shadowed classrooms. Ashe makes her laugh and believe that good men do exist, and they trade stories like cards across a poker table. 

She likes Claude, even if she misses Edelgard. She’d asked to transfer and her Emperor - which is how she privately thinks of Edie sometimes - had simply said, _be well, no matter which path you choose, even if it is not mine._ Dorothea had chalked it up to Hubert’s dramatics rubbing off on her.

She’d been tired of being the only commoner in the Black Eagles, too. She, Ashe, Dedue and Leonie have joked amongst themselves about starting a club. The only noble she can find of any reproach in the Golden Deer is Lorenz, and the Alliance is a whole different animal of nobility. 

She’d considered the Kingdom previously, but Dimitri makes her twitchy. He’s a perfect gentleman in every regard, a tragic heroine and orphan, an ideal prince; but she’s not searching for fairytales or queenhood, just another symbol around her neck. She wants to live and be loved after her beauty fades away, and she didn’t think he could give her that. She flirts with guardsmen and minor lords, no lofty sense of needing a respectful spouse there, even if all they do is whisper poison behind her back. She didn’t think things could still wound her after what she’d done, but they did. 

Felix, at the beginning, had interested her. He’s a mainstay at the training grounds, never too far from a sword and prickly as a cactus. The only noble she knows to be as antisocial is Hubert von Vestra; but she knows him to be soft and good and loyal, under all that bite. Felix: a mystery, a noble who shuns even the appearance of ceremony, skips classes and only wants to fight the professor. Their entire class is a variety of temperaments; bizarre nobles of weird obsessions and some agoraphobic sweethearts. But Felix isn’t borne of sloth or shyness, she'd been pretty certain. She had prodded him, poked him with sweet coaxing words and he had responded in fine dickish form. She’d almost laughed, veering from feeling anger at the familiar dismissal - plenty of nobles had treated her similarly before her debut - and amusement that he probably treated any person who approached with the brusqueness of a club. She’d sated her curiosity and thought they’d never speak again, until he transferred houses and she’d been forced to deal with him daily. 

Then he accused her of having designs on him. Disappointing, truly, to find him so simple. Yes, she’s bitter, to find him gritting out the same dogged whisper that follows her endlessly, even as she retains her composure and smiles. 

“I don’t see why you bother with him,” she’d said to his old housemates, and they’d all made an understanding face. But everyone she spoke to gave her a different face of Felix. With Ashe he could be curt and rude up until he wasn’t anymore, kind and sincere. With Annette he’s teasing, dry, even funny. With Mercedes he’s brutal - but after hearing about his brother from Ingrid, it makes sense. Felix seems to have as many masks as her leading men, trading one face for another. But maybe that’s what they have in common. 

One of the women at the monastery had told her she could come off as intimidating, recently. All said good-naturedly, but she’d heard it all before. _Make yourself smaller, Dorothea, and maybe you’d get more scraps. Lower your standards if you want a spouse, Dorothea. A man doesn’t want a woman who can beat him, Dorothea._ Maybe she’s trying to have it all, but she didn’t get to be leading diva with her _feminine passivity_. She turns on the charm for her dates - who doesn’t? But she didn’t come to Garreg Mach just to be a trophy wife, as much as she plays differently. So it does irk her that just like anyone else, Felix sees only one thing. He put her in a box. She can't forget that, or forgive it. Not yet. 

“I’m me. That won’t change for anyone, no matter what they think of me.” she declares aloud, and then sees a flash of gold and a familiar braid. She looks up to see Claude, leaning against a wall near her lounging spot, smiling softly. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says. “You looked like you were thinking really hard, Dorothea. Can I inquire as to why?”

“Merely ruminating, as it were,” she replies, sighing. “Actually, I have a question for you, Claudie.” 

“That nickname makes me feel like my grandmother. I think we should workshop it more. But please, ask away. I’m an open book.”

She snorts. “You and I both know that’s not true, but I don’t have the time to unpack your psyche, dear leader. Why did you let Felix into the Golden Deer? And don’t say it’s because of Teach.” 

“He’s a rough customer, huh? Want me to talk to him for you? It won’t help, since he keeps challenging me to spar, but...”

“No, I can handle him fine. It’s just...”

Claude walks over and flips onto the grass beside her. “From what I can gather, ‘Thea, the Kingdom breeds racism, eugenics, misogyny and above all, hierarchy. He wants to get away from that, or says he does. He wants to see a new way. So why not show him mine?”

Dorothea examines Claude. “You’ve thought about this.” 

Claude’s green eyes glint. “I’ve thought about a lot of things, Dorothea. This is just the beginning.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason.” 

“Likewise. How he was brought up still doesn’t excuse anything he might’ve said to you, though. I know Teach made you teach him how to dance - how is that coming along, by the way?” 

“It’s an effort, but I’m instilling some of my natural charm in him.”

“Truly, only a feat for the beautiful Dorothea.” 

“Flatterer. Goddess, I can’t believe the cup is in a couple days.” 

“You confident in your fledgling student?” 

It takes all of her acting ability to nonchalantly lie through her teeth. “Of course I am. The Golden Deer will come out on top, don’t you worry.”

“Dubious bragging rights, but I’ll take it. Offer to kick his ass from a long range still stands.” 

She smirks. “We’ll see.”

* * *

Lysithea passes her a note in class the next day. 

_Meet me tonight. - Felix_

She smirks. 

_A late night rendezvous? I expected this from Sylvain, not you._

He sits in front of her, slightly diagonal, and she watches as Ashe passes him the note. Felix scans it and his ears turn red. She can practically see the steam coming out of them. She wishes she could see his face. She didn’t realize he’d be this fun to tease. She’d bet good money that if they’d had this conversation in person, he’d be spluttering. _Adorable._

_Enough with your frivolous suggestions. I require further assistance for the White Heron Cup. Courtyard. 9 pm._

_That’s a little late. What if I say no?_

_You irresponsible fiend._

She swallows a giggle fit. _Damn. Why is his porcupine attitude so charming after all?_

_I love it when you call me by these sweet nothings, Felix dear. I’ll meet you._

He bustles out of the room when class ends before she can catch him and tease him more. Dorothea might imagine it, but his neck still seems faintly flushed. 

_Oh, younger, sheltered noble boys._ She wishes it wasn’t so cute.

* * *

Dorothea corrects his stance a few times, demonstrates, but largely, she doesn’t need to do much. Felix’s own competitiveness kicked in - he’s been practicing in his spare time, she can tell. His movements are smoother, much less self-conscious.

“Again.” She twirls a finger in the air. She’s surprised by his progress, pleasantly so, but she does want to make him squirm a little bit. He’s taken her advice about flow to heart, but there’s always room for improvement. Felix is graceful - that was never in doubt - but she wishes that he’d show a little _flair_. 

He’s sweating lightly, the evening breeze rifling through the trees. “No.” His brown eyes narrow. “I suppose this is payback.” 

“You suppose correctly. But I’m a gracious woman, so I won’t push it. I told you I’d make a dancer out of you.” She grants him a smile. “Well done.” 

She readies herself to say her farewells, wish him luck, even, before his expression stops her. He looks abashed, even a little awkward, refusing to look at her. “You...were a decent teacher,” he finally says. (Dorothea interjects and says “What rapturous praise.” He ignores her.) 

He continues on, “Thanks. I guess. You could have opted not to teach me. I implied some...things about you in the past. I...assumed incorrectly that you-”

“Wouldn’t be hurt by it?” She asks. “I was a little hurt. But we barely knew each other back then, and I was trying to get a rise out of you. What I mean to say is, I was a little jealous of you, Felix.” 

At that he’s incredulous. “Jealous? Of me?”

“You don’t care what other people think. Aggressively. It’s a skill I’m cultivating. To live like that your whole life...I wonder how you do it.” 

He glances at his sword by his side and looks up at Dorothea. “Let me show you.”

* * *

Predictably, he leads her to the training hall. “Let’s spar.” 

Dorothea shakes her head like she'd been expecting this, but is still disbelieving. “What? Are you serious?” 

“I don’t joke. Draw your weapon, unless you intend to fight without one.” 

“If you want to train, then do it on your own.” She huffs. 

“I’ve already lost training time to these dancing lessons. If you don’t attack first, I will.” He readies himself, training sword in hand. 

She scoffs, then grabs another training sword off a rack. “Couldn’t find a training partner this late so you rope in your dancing teacher, huh? Bet you planned this all along. I suppose this is payback.” 

He grins suddenly, a cocky smile that transforms his whole face into lethal handsomeness, making her knees weak. “You suppose correctly.” 

She sets her jaw, sliding into a stance, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach. Never let it be said Dorothea Arnault didn’t rise to a challenge. She’s been practicing a few rounds with the Professor, too. “OK. If you want me to knock some sense into you, who am I to say no?”

* * *

She’s good. That’s when Felix knows that he’s in trouble. He underestimated her. She’s matching him whenever he tries to maneuver into her blind spots and she’s got more muscle than he expected. He still beats her, but it’s nearer than he’d like. They’re both panting, her emerald eyes are luminous with adrenaline and he is trying very, very hard not to stare at her mouth. Dorothea Arnault knows her way around a sword and he is...in trouble. Whatever definition of trouble that Sylvain has, he is unfortunately in it. 

“For a mage, you’re pretty strong.” He gets out over the roar of dumb hormones. 

“Is this your attempt at flattery? Aw, it is, isn’t it? When I was in the opera, I always trained for self-defense. Couldn’t really get by without it. Nowadays, if you can’t use a sword, then you’re just in the way. Besides, Yuri and Petra have been coaching me on the side. I can’t just rely on magic to keep me safe.” 

“I had you all wrong,” he says, after a beat. “I apologize for my assumptions.” 

“Goddess, if you’re going to make me fight you every time you’re rude, this is going to be a trying friendship,” she says, stretching her arms. “I’m going to take a shower and you are going to rest up, Mr. Representative. Tomorrow’s the day. Also, you owe me tea for this stunt. I suspect, now that we’ve sparred, we are friends now, yes?” 

He struggles. Friends. He can do friends. Right? Even if it’s with an infuriatingly beautiful girl who’s shockingly strong and dangerously intriguing? “One tea.” 

“And a meal.”

“Don’t get carried away.” 

Her laughter after she says, “Aw, you’re no fun...” follows him all the way back to his room and is the last thing he hears before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i want to explore dorothea's dynamics with everyone (even those without support chains) in this fic too!  
> dorothea: *has chemistry with literally everybody*  
> me: hm. fuck. felix has his work cut out for him i guess.


End file.
